


Morning Star

by coffeeandcas



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Decisions, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Drunk Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Heavy Angst, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Loneliness, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22224073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandcas/pseuds/coffeeandcas
Summary: Jaskier and Geralt have parted ways, for the final time as far as Jaskier is concerned. Hurt and bitter, he wants to forget all about Geralt of Rivia and move on with his life.The trouble is, Geralt just can’t let him.Set immediately after the events of S1E6, Rare Species.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 251
Kudos: 2086
Collections: Geralt is Sorry





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Morning Star: most commonly used as a name for the planet Venus when it appears in the east before sunrise.
> 
> Venus: the second planet from the Sun, named after the Roman goddess of love.

_ Damn it, Jaskier!  _

Geralt’s voice wakes him from a deep, dreamless sleep and he blinks into consciousness with a tense, clawing feeling in his chest, breathing hard. Maybe he was dreaming, but hasn’t recalled what it was about. That would make sense, especially after the last few days. His tent is stiflingly hot and there’s a grimy layer of sweat over his skin which he doesn’t bother to try and wipe away. He slept in his clothes and now feels dirty and rank, but can’t find it in him to care. The stream is nearby, he can wash if he needs to. But later, much later. When Geralt and the others are long gone, then he’ll be safe to emerge so he can avoid any further conflict or awkward questions. 

It’s early still, before dawn, and he turns to lie on his side and stares at his lute sadly. Normally he can turn any situation into song, especially if heightened emotions are involved, but not this time. This time it hurts far too much. 

_ Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it's you shovelling it? The Child Surprise, the djinn, all of it!  _

That hadn’t been a fair accusation, not at all, but Geralt had been so incensed that Jaskier’s attempt at a rebuttal had fallen on deaf ears. Maybe he’d made things a little more complicated than strictly necessary when it came to the djinn, but it wasn’t intentional - and Geralt had wound up getting a wish out of it, not that he or anyone else on the planet will ever find out what that wish is. But he hadn’t foreseen any issues with asking Geralt to watch his back at the betrothal. How could he, or anyone, have predicted that Geralt would do something so utterly asinine as claim the Law of Surprise when he doesn’t even believe in it. That was entirely down to him, not Jaskier. Nobody forced the words from his mouth. And today? Again, not his fault. If Geralt and Yennefer are having problems then it’s nothing to do with Jaskier, surely. 

In the few seconds between Yennefer walking away and Geralt turning on him, Jaskier had experienced a spark of hope. With the frighteningly powerful mage out of the picture, perhaps he and Geralt could return to being the dysfunctional little team he was used to. But then Geralt had wheeled around with wild, flashing eyes and practically spat at him in his hatred and Jaskier’s visions of the two of them against the world had crumbled before his eyes. 

_ If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands! _

He’s had many a hurtful thing said to him over the years, sometimes by people he cared about and sometimes by people he did not. But this? This had cut him deeply and he’s still reeling too much to begin licking his wounds. In that one sentence, Geralt had confirmed the suspicions that had been lurking in Jaskier’s mind for a long time now: that the witcher only tolerated him, didn’t see him as a true friend and companion, but as a nuisance and a tag along, a pest to swat when the time was right. For Geralt, it seems like that time had come last night. 

He had retreated to the safety of the camp and tried to immerse himself in the conversations of the others, but to no avail. Yennefer had been blessedly absent, as had Geralt; the dwarves were raucous as always but he felt unable to join in their frivolous celebrations. There was a nasty hollow feeling in his chest and, after eating scarcely a few bites of roasted hare, had made his excuses and retired to his tent. As he’d walked away, he’d noticed that nobody had responded when he’d bid them all goodnight, instead busying themselves with other conversations. They hadn’t even noticed he’d got up and left. Without Geralt there, he lifted right out of the group and that realisation stung badly. 

The hollow feeling had followed him all the way to his tent, where the fake smile he’d managed to plaster on slipped and fell away, and he stared off into space as Geralt’s words reverberated around in his mind. It had taken him an age to fall asleep and he’d woken multiple times in the night feeling sick and lost. Now, he curls on his side, heartsick, and thinks back over their time together and the hours they’ve spent in each other’s company. Did Geralt just tolerate him through every minute, while he thought they were enjoying themselves? It certainly seems that way now. 

It hurts all the more thanks to what had transpired between them all those weeks ago, before Yennefer was on the scene and Geralt was so swept up by her that he practically forgot Jaskier exists. They’d been together a few times since, but it had seemed perfunctory and clinical - now Jaskier realises that Geralt was only going through the motions with him, and that his mind was somewhere else. With someone else. Which makes him feel even more stupid than he did before. 

He rubs his eyes savagely with the back of his hand - he will not cry again, not over Geralt of Rivia who probably took off last night without a damn backward glance. Geralt whom he’d once thought would be more than a companion. More than a friend. Something more. 

Geralt had been drunk the first time it had happened. He’d stumbled into Jaskier’s room at the inn they’d found to stay at, and had sat down heavily on the bed, sighing out all the aches and pains from the day’s hunt. Jaskier had jokingly reached over to massage his shoulders and found himself dragged across the bed with Geralt’s mouth at his neck and heat surging between them. The night had been long and enjoyable and Jaskier’s thighs had ached pleasantly come dawn. 

He had assumed they’d never speak of it again. 

And they hadn’t. But it transpired again, at the next inn. Geralt was less inebriated this time, and it was all the more enjoyable. They didn’t speak of that, either. Then again, in the tent they’d shared while trailing a basilisk, and that time there had been a lot of kissing, and they’d even cuddled for a time afterwards, not that either of them would ever admit that to any soul, living or dead. It had been nice, companionable, maybe a little more than that, and Jaskier had found himself looking forward to it occurring again at the next inn, or the next dusty nook they could pitch a tent in. 

Then the djinn happened, then Yennefer happened, and nothing between Jaskier and Geralt had happened since. Probably for the best, he thinks dejectedly. Had he known how things would go between them he would have rejected Geralt’s advances that very first night. 

Dawn has broken by now, his own thoughts having held him captive for far too long, and he can hear nothing but the wind in the trees surrounding him. Feeling broken and sorrowful, he manages to haul himself from his tent and casts about for his camp mates. As predicted, he’s alone, the only evidence of their presence at all being the burned-out fire and flattened patches where they’d pitched tents or slept under the stars. They’re all gone. Nobody had thought to wake him, and he pushes down the rising pain at that thought. He’s fine on his own. He prefers it, truth be told. Especially now as he wants to bathe in the stream and doesn’t need any onlookers for that. 

He remembers sitting at the fireside, Geralt nudging him hard after his catty remark to Yennefer. The memory stings and he picks up his pace. The stream will cleanse this pain, he’s sure. Wash it all away so he can start afresh, move on to the nearest town and set up there, entertain the locals and write new material which doesn’t centre around a white-haired asshole and his stupid horse. He can forget about Geralt entirely, forget how those nights made him feel and forget how agonising it had been to be told how unwanted he truly was. 

He doesn’t see the movement in the deserted camp behind him, doesn’t feel the amber eyes on his back as he retreats towards the quiet sanctuary of the stream. He doesn’t hear the whisper of his name. Nor does he hear the sound of hooves as a chestnut mare turns in the dust to carry its rider away. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there are any glaring typos then please 1) let me know and 2) forgive me; I write everything on my phone, usually with my newborn baby snuggled up to me, so the odd mistake will definitely happen.
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and kudos so far!

Over the next few months, Jaskier doesn’t think about Geralt of Rivia at all. 

Well, not often. 

Not  _ too _ often. 

Fine, he thinks about him all the damn time but only because he has to. It seems there’s no escape from the infernal witcher because everywhere he goes someone recognises him and requests that blasted song and then he’s back to thinking about Geralt all over again. It’s as though they all do it intentionally just to hurt him. 

After the incident with the dragon, Jaskier had strapped his lute to his back and set off on a little quest of his own. The mission: forget all about Geralt, Yennefer, the djinn, the banquet and everything in between. To take himself back to before he knew the witcher existed, to before those damn elves, to when he was a simple bard who enjoyed simple things like food, wine and women, and playing his songs to welcoming crowds. 

And it worked, for a time. He moved from village to village, never staying anywhere too long under the guise of wanting to explore but in reality he didn’t stay long enough for word to reach Geralt of where he was. Not that he thought the witcher would give a monkeys, but just in case. It wasn’t worth the risk. His hurt feelings hadn’t quite recovered, and instead of feeling better for being away from the witcher he feels worse as the weeks flow by. He imagines Geralt and Yennefer, the pair of them against the world, all happy and in love and spending every night fucking each other’s brains out. He’d seen them, that time, had barely been able to take his eyes off them. Jealousy had kept him glued to the broken window until Chireadan had dragged him away. They’d looked so  _ hot _ together, so natural, like they fit just perfectly as a couple, and Jaskier had wondered in that moment if he and Geralt would ever have looked like that to an accidental voyeur. Then, he’d thought that surely they would. 

Now, he knows that nobody would look at them and think they were good together as a couple. Everyone would look at them and instinctively ask what the hell the famous, legendary White Wolf was doing with the likes of a humble, bumbling bard who didn’t know when to keep his lips sealed or his lute on his back. He’s nobody, and if he knows what’s good for him he should probably keep it that way. Keep his heart under lock and key, and keep his love affairs short, sweet, and impersonal. 

He manages to achieve what he desired: he never runs into Geralt and, oddly, never hears any whisper or murmur of his presence in any village he stays in. 

Then, one day, while he’s singing of his old romance with the Countess de Stael and the tavern is filled with merry drunks getting merrier by the second, the door opens and a gust of wind, ice and snow blows into the warmth. And it brings with it a very familiar figure indeed. 

Jaskier’s chest tightens and he forgets the words to his own song momentarily, stumbling over the tune before managing to right himself and quickly turn his back. Shit. Even if Geralt doesn’t see him immediately, he’ll surely recognise his singing. 

Then again, Jaskier tries to reason with himself, maybe he won’t. Maybe Geralt never really listened to him in the first place. 

He cuts his song short, pretends the patrons actually care that their lyrical entertainment has come to a sudden and jolting end, and retreats to the bar to order an ale, ensuring his back remains firmly turned towards the door. But characteristically, Geralt manages to approach so silently that he’s only aware of the witcher’s presence when a hand comes down onto his shoulder. 

“I thought you’d be here.”

“Geralt. Hello.” He manages to keep all emotion from his voice and doesn’t bother to turn to offer a smile with his greeting. Geralt takes a moment to respond. 

“I heard there was a bard of questionable talent in town. I thought I should investigate.”

This does turn Jaskier’s head and he glares at Geralt, hurt and indignant. 

“Well, thanks very much. It’s good to see you too.”  _ Now do is both a favour and fuck off, _ he thinks, but isn’t quite brave enough to say it. He doesn’t want Geralt to laugh in his face. Or stab him. 

“It was supposed to be a joke. Of sorts.” Geralt actually manages to look abashed without moving a single muscle in his face, and Jaskier snorts. 

“You need to work on your sense of humour. I’m busy. Talk to you later.”

He scoops up his cup of ale and turns to leave, but is stopped by a firm hand on his forearm. He glances down at it, at the dirt ingrained in Geralt’s knuckles and beneath his nails, then up at a pair of unreadable amber eyes. He waits, but Geralt doesn’t speak so he shrugs him off and attempts to leave again, but this time the witcher moves to block his path. 

“Geralt, I’m working, did you need something?”

“You’re not working.” Geralt frowns at him. He looks tired, Jaskier thinks, his hair more marred than usual and in desperate need of a wash. He can smell Roach all over him, especially this close. 

“I am. I was taking a break and now I’m not. What do you want?” He jerks his arm free and straightens his clothing, using the movements to buy himself some time while he tries to calm the staccato rhythm of his heart and surreptitiously wipe the sweat from his palms. He was so not prepared for this. 

“To talk.”

“Well, I think you did enough of that last time I saw you. Now, if you’ll excuse me...”

He sidesteps and turns to vanish into the throng of people, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and freshly baked breads and pies, and thinks absently that he should probably eat something soon, once he’s recovered from the unpleasant shock of seeing the witcher. The sooner Geralt leaves, the better in every way...

“Jaskier. Please.”

And it’s that one word, a word he doesn’t think he’s ever heard cross Geralt’s lips before, that stops him in his tracks. He wonders if anyone has ever heard him speak that word aloud, and the idea that maybe he’s the first one to hear it from the witcher’s mouth makes him feel peculiarly smug. And as though he’s back in control after feeling shunned for so long. 

He opens his mouth to respond but someone else gets there first. 

“I think he told you to fuck off, pal.”

A gravelly voice comes down like an axe blade between them and Geralt turns with raised eyebrows to see who dares address him in such a way. The speaker is large, Geralt’s height but heavier set, with short dark hair and a thick beard to match. There’s a sword on his hip and a deep frown between his brows - and Jaskier immediately thinks  _ shit _ . This could go sideways. Especially as Geralt’s hand twitches in the direction of his waist where his dagger is currently sheathed. 

“Excuse me?” His response is falsely polite, an invitation for the man to repeat himself, but Jaskier hears the unspoken  _ what the fuck did you just say to me _ hanging between them like a pendulum. 

“You heard.” The man leans an elbow on the bar, standing very close to Geralt and certainly invading his personal space, while Jaskier watches in mild horror. The man must be supremely brainless to challenge a witcher this way, or have a death wish. Or, judging by the smell, an ale or four too many. 

“He’s an old friend. We were talking. Get out of the way.” Geralt moves to push the man aside, to swipe at him as though he were a gnat, but the man straightens and squares his shoulders instead. 

“We don’t like witchers round these parts. Nasty thieving liars, the lot of you. Sooner you get gone, the better.”

Geralt says nothing to this, but redirects his gaze over the man’s shoulder to Jaskier, and the look in his eyes unsettles the bard. He’s never seen Geralt this subdued before. However, the words from not so long ago ring in his head and he shrugs, averting his eyes. A moment of silence passes between the three of them, where Jaskier is sure someone is about to get impaled on the tip of a long sword and himself sprayed with claret in the process. But nothing of the sort transpires. 

“Very well.” Geralt inclines his head in Jaskier’s direction, and the shock of seeing him actually step down and retreat is so startling that Jaskier thinks he might have to sit down and quickly. Amber eyes meet his own and something flashes in them, something that makes Jaskier tilt his head in question. “Until next time.”

He wants to tell him to wait, not to go, but the words won’t come. He isn’t stupid enough to open himself up to Geralt’s barbed version of friendship again, no matter what he just saw in those eyes. 

“I suppose so. Say hello to Roach for me.” 

He manages the perfect balance of polite and disinterested and, again without seeming to move at all, Geralt visibly wilts. Then, composing himself and straightening his spine, he gives a sharp nod then turns and pushes his way through the crowd until he’s out of sight. The door opens, a blast of cold air chills them all for a brief moment, then Geralt is gone and Jaskier sags back against the bar, drained. 

He turns to thank his companion who grins broadly, eyes twinkling, and claps him on the shoulder. 

“You’re welcome, bard.” The heavyset man smirks at him, then leans over and nudges the barkeep. “Keep the ales coming all night. I’m at the corner table, over there; six of us. And one for the bard.” Jaskier’s spirits lift a little. “Oh, and he’s paying.” 

His grubby thumb jerks over his shoulder in Jaskier’s direction and he rolls his eyes, shoulders slumping in defeat. 

Typical.


	3. Chapter 3

_Damn it, Jaskier!_

Geralt’s sword penetrates the densely thick skull of the warg with alarming ease, the killing blow fuelled by his own rage. He’ been hunting the damn thing all day, a hunt which usually would have taken him a couple of hours at most. He’s being sloppy, and he deliberately refuses to think about why. Then, when he refuses to think about why, even that reminds him of Jaskier and how he’d called him out on his shit back at the river’s edge when he was steadfastly hunting the djinn but wouldn’t admit why. He can’t escape the bard no matter how much he tries.

And he _has_ tried. Oh, has he tried. After parting ways with both Jaskier and Yennefer on the same day, Geralt had immersed himself in the life he’d led before he met either of them. Hunting monsters for coin, drinking ale alone in taverns, sleeping alone in questionable inns or at the roadside with Roach nearby, whichever took his fancy or whichever the weather allowed for. He used to sleep fairly well, generally tired out by his long days and physical exertion, but now it doesn’t seem to matter how tired he is: he either can’t fall asleep or, if he does, he wakes multiple times during the night after nightmares he cannot remember. It all feels entirely too human for his liking and he resents how easily both the mage and the bard have got under his skin. Initially he couldn’t quite put his finger on which circumstance he was more upset over, but as the weeks have blended into months it’s become crystal clear and now he wonders how he managed to be so obtuse.

Yennefer will always be dear to him, that’s for sure. Their romance was short-lived but fuelled by heat and passion, and at the time Geralt could see himself spending a long time with her. Many years, in truth. But her absence in his life hasn’t left him as bereft as he thought it would, showcasing that in fact all they had was a passionate love affair. Which certainly isn’t something to look poorly on, but in the long-run they wouldn’t have made each other happy.

Jaskier, on the other hand…

He misses him. Painfully, deeply, like an internal wound that refuses to heal, becoming festering and gangrenous instead. The longer they spend apart, the more Geralt notices his absence and that bothers him on many levels. He had once said, to Jaskier himself, that he didn’t ever want anyone to need him. Jaskier had stared at him for a moment then responded with ‘and yet, here we are’ and at the time Geralt had grunted in a combination of muted irritation and acceptance. Now, he wishes he had responded very differently.

_Damn it, Jaskier!_

He managed, for a while, to convince himself that he had just become used to the bard’s presence and that the absence of consistent and annoying chatter plus the relentless singing was just something he needed to adjust to. But that pretence doesn’t last long, and soon he’s lying awake at night thinking of Jaskier and remembering all the time they’ve spent together. The hunts, the evenings drinking ale while Jaskier entertained crowds. The betrothal. The djinn. The elves. All things that weren't Jaskier's fault at all.

The nights they’d spent sharing a bed, exploring each other’s bodies with wild hands and mouths. The long, languid moments spend in each other’s arms afterwards.

Thinking of those times hurts his heart in a way he didn’t realise was possible until recently.

Geralt has lived a long time. He’s seen a lot of places, met many, many people, yet nobody has touched him in quite the same way as Jaskier has. It’s only now, now that he’s facing the permanent loss of someone who could have been his everything, does he realise just how much the joyful, merry, fresh-faced young man actually means to him. He likes Jaskier. He _likes_ him, more than likes him. He likes his sense of humour, his hair - which was always perfect to grab during sex - and the way he fit just right against Geralt’s side when they slept. He likes his singing. His smile. His optimism which contrasts so starkly with Geralt’s own cynical outlook on life and the world around him.

He even likes the crows feet.

_Damn it, Jaskier!_

He wipes a hand across his forehead, streaking blood and dirt through the sweat gathered there, and sits down heavily on the nearest rock, surveying the body of the warg. It’s still twitching and he kicks it solidly with the heel of his boot. Stupid fucking thing. The job has earned him almost two hundred marks but he feels no satisfaction at the thought of collecting it. Even hunting seems to have lost its shine ever since the incident at the tavern where Jaskier had looked at him so coldly it was as though they hardly knew each other, and that fat fucker had stepped in between them like he was saving some plain and plaintive maiden from a toothless dragon.

The man had irked him and he’d waited outside the tavern in the shadows for a long time, waiting for him to leave so he could deal with him in private. But as it happened, Jaskier had left first, with a girl on his arm and his cheeks reddened with ale and merriment, and Geralt had slipped further back into the shadows, cowed. It had been raining, the type of rain that falls almost horizontally, accompanied by a bitter wind that felt as though it were stripping the skin from his lips, and the doorway he sheltered in had suddenly felt much colder than it had done before. His chest had felt tight as he’d watched Jaskier walk down the street, not caring about the rain soaking his stupid floppy hair or the mud at his boots. He’d disappeared down an alleyway with the girl, who had long dark hair and was blessed in the chest and rear, and Geralt had slunk away, stung. And irritated at himself for feeling that way.

He hadn’t seen Jaskier since. He’d vanished from the village by morning, riding Roach at a slow pace which perfectly matched his mood, and by sunset he was so far from the village that he hoped he would succumb to the bard being out of sight, out of mind. Unfortunately, as soon as his head hit the lumpy pillow at the nearest inn, he saw Jaskier’s hurt face in his mind’s eye all those months ago and he’d say up in bed, scrubbing a hand over his face, then thrown back the sheets and made for the nearest whore house. If he couldn’t have the bard warming his bed, he would have anyone who’d have him for his coin - anything to erase the memory of what he’d done. Of the cruel words that had left his lips that afternoon on the mountain. And the memory of Jaskier’s face in the seconds following.

He hadn’t meant it, hadn’t meant those words to come out the way they did. In the heat of the moment, perhaps he had, but not truly. He was angry and feeling the loss of Yennefer deeply, and he had lashed out at the wrong person. Said entirely the wrong thing. Now that his wish has come true and Jaskier is notably absent in his world, he’s filled with so much regret and guilt that it almost chokes him on a daily basis. He didn’t want Jaskier gone. He wanted, and still wants, him by his side. Daily. He wants more than his friendship, his companionship. Looking back, he’s beginning to see all the ways he had wronged the bard when he’d naively thought Jaskier knew exactly what was in his thoughts and how he felt. Now, after the verbal lashing he’d given him, he’ll be surprised if Jaskier ever speaks to him again, let alone forgives him.

He packs up slowly, his mind racing in sharp juxtaposition. Approaching Jaskier had been a huge failure. He needs to try again, try harder, persuade Jaskier to give him the time of day so that they can talk, and attempt to reconcile what they had. Sighing aloud, he heaves his pack up onto Roach, straps it in, and mounts with a renewed sense of contrition.

“Damn it, Jaskier.”

He turns Roach with a flick of the reins, then they’re heading back the direction they came in. The head of the warg, decapitated at the neck with one clean blow, hangs in a bag off the back of the mare, swinging with the motion of each step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to get inside Geralt's head sometimes!


	4. Chapter 4

The next time they stumble across each other it’s entirely by accident. 

It’s summer, and too warm for Geralt’s liking. He’s happier in cooler weather, when the sun is high in the sky but the breeze is cool, when both he and Roach don’t run the risk of overheating if they travel for more than an hour. He’d be fine, uncomfortable and cranky at worst, but Roach never enjoys the blistering heat and Geralt can’t blame him. 

They’ve stopped on the outskirts of a city Geralt hasn’t visited before. It has high sandstone walls and a great archway entrance, and he’d rode in slowly under the watchful eyes of multiple guards stationed on top of the walls, observing his every move. He gets the impression instantly that his kind aren’t welcome here yet it’s no surprise. He’s used to hostility. 

There are small flags and strings of bunting flying from balconies as he gets closer to the city centre. There’s something happening in the square, an event of sorts, and he dismounts Roach and tethers him, continuing on foot as the crowds begin to thicken. When he reaches the square he sees the source of all the excitement and merriment: a jousting tournament. Intrigued, he ventures a little closer; it’s been a while since he was privy to entertainment such as this, and god knows he could use a pick-me-up. 

The arena is vast and sandy, lines drawn with a barrier down the centre, and across from him a small podium has been erected on which sit the Prince and Princess, limply holding hands. The Princess looks as though she would rather be anywhere else, but the Prince’s rodent-like eyes are fixed beadily on the next pair of knights to enter the arena. There’s music playing, and a handful of the royal guards standing watch, and Geralt looks around him, checking for the usual: pickpockets, escape routes, sources of danger, general pests. 

And who should be standing up there on the podium, strumming his lute and singing loudly and with genuine cheer, but the man he can’t get out of his mind. Jaskier. 

*

_ Past _ . 

Fuck, Jaskier’s mouth is good. Where the hell had he learned to do that thing with his tongue? Fuck. He could stay here forever. 

He’s lying back on the bed, propped up on his elbows with his head tilted back so his hair hangs down to brush the pillows, shirtless, and the bard is kneeling between his legs. The room is stiflingly hot with a fire burning in the hearth and woollen blankets that scratch at his skin and will make him sweat if he sleeps beneath them. Not that he has any intention of sleeping any time soon. 

He’s been drinking, somewhat. A few ales after a long day, maybe a few too many. The man who’d paid him handsomely for his services kept showering him with gratitude and buying him drink after drink until the alcohol began to affect him. He doesn’t get drunk easily, his body resilient to the effects of inebriation. But he’d been relaxed and fatigued, and didn’t have the heart or energy to protest as more and more kept being poured out for him. He allowed the man to toast him, allowed him to sing a few tuneless lines of Jaskier’s infamous song. Then he had a few more. 

He thought he was heading for his own room, genuinely. So imagine his surprise when he stumbled through the door, sending it slamming back against the wall and shuddering on its hinges, to see a lump beneath the blankets and damp clothing hanging over a rail by the fireside. Jaskier’s rumpled head had appeared, eyes bleary with sleep, and he’d stared at him in confusion. 

“Geralt? This isn’t your room.”

“Move over.” He’d collapsed onto the edge of the bed and begun wrestling with his boots with limited success. “Need sleep.”

“You need help. You can’t sleep in your clothes.” Jaskier had sat up in bed and placed a hand on Geralt’s shoulders. Still half-asleep, he’d laughed carelessly. “So tense, witcher. You need to relax. Here, let me.”

But before Jaskier can do more than dig his thumbs into the meat of Geralt’s shoulder, the witcher grips his arm and jerks him around so they’re face-to-face, Jaskier half sprawled over his lap. 

“Geralt, what-”

He doesn’t know who kisses who, doesn’t remember, but soon he has his tongue in Jaskier’s mouth, holding the back of his head, and Jaskier’s hands are fumbling eagerly at the ties of his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders, manoeuvring himself until he’s straddling Geralt and kissing him deeply. Any residual doubt that Jaskier may not want this is completely gone as the bard slides down to kneel between his legs and reaches for the fastenings of his pants, eyes dark and full of heat. 

“Mmm, fuck.” Geralt leans back on the bed, one hand in Jaskier’s hair, as he starts to suck him then all time seems to stand still. 

He collapses back on the bed, head thrown back, and buries both hands in Jaskier’s hair, holding him in place between his legs as the bard deep throats him, groaning loud and long and low as he comes, hard, stars exploding behind his eyes. He feels Jaskier swallow around him, drawing out his orgasm, and when the bard sits back on his heels his lips shine in the firelight with saliva and Geralt’s release. 

“C’mere.” He grunts, extending a hand, then finds himself with an armful of Jaskier, pressing close and kissing his neck. He’s too spent to do anything other than hold him close. He falls asleep quickly, one hand on Jaskier’s thigh, thinking he probably should have reciprocated. When he wakes, an hour or two later, he does just that. 

*

If Geralt truly believed in fate and destiny, which he feels as though he’s being forced into doing, he would see this encounter as exactly that. Finding Jaskier in some unknown city miles from anywhere they’ve ever been before, that certainly seems as though a higher power is intervening somewhere to push them together. 

He leans his forearms on the barriers holding the crowd back and instead of watching the jousting he watches Jaskier. The bard is in his element, walking back and forth, singing and smiling, hair shining in the sun. It makes Geralt’s heart ache just to watch him, and he’s content to do just that: watch him. And he does, ignoring the thundering horses, the arrogance of the knights when they win, the cheering and booing of the crowd depending on the outcome of the tournaments. He just watched Jaskier, content in the knowledge that he hasn’t been spotted and can stare to his heart’s content. 

Then, up on the podium, he notices one of the Prince’s aides leaning down to whisper in his ear - then pointing across the arena and directly at him. Fuck. The last thing he wants is to be recognised. He turns and tries to slink away into the crowd but it’s too thick, the people too focused on the jousting, and even with his size and muscle he can’t press his way through. 

Then he hears it: the low wail of a horn and, around him, everyone and everything falls still and quiet, attention focusing on the podium and the royalty that sit atop it. With a feeling of trepidation building in his stomach, he turns slowly to see the Prince on his feet, staring across the arena and straight at him. 

“Gentlemen. Ladies. Knights of the realm. It appears we have a very special guest in our midst on this wonderful afternoon.” The Prince has a reedy voice to match his stature; his guard stands a head taller than him and his finely sewn clothing seems to swamp him. “A witcher.”

A hubbub of noise breaks out across the crowd, whispers and murmurs and some people laughing, turning this way and that to try and find the subject of the Prince’s words. Geralt closes his eyes, counting silently to ten, thinking only of one thing: Jaskier’s face when he realises that Geralt is not only in the same city but less than twenty feet away. He hopes for the briefest of seconds that he might be wrong, that there might be some other witcher in the crowd to take on all of the attention. But alas, as seems to be becoming common these days, he’s wrong. 

“Geralt of Rivia!” The Prince proclaims pompously, and his bejewelled hand reaches out to point across the arena. “The White Wolf! Here, gracing us with his presence! An honour, sir!”

Fuck. Everyone is turning to look at him in either awe or resentment, and the people closest to him are backing away to leave a small circle of space around him. The Prince claps in amusement on the stage and Geralt allows himself to follow the source of the sound, then search for the one person whose reaction he actually cares for. He has to shield his eyes with a hand to stop the glare of the sun, but he finds him instantly, and sees his wide eyes and parted lips, the expression of astonishment written all over his face. 

Then the Prince turns to the bard and says, with an element of smug satisfaction, “This is the one you sing your love songs about, yes?” 

Jaskier’s face snaps with shock and his cheeks glow instantly scarlet. He opens his mouth to respond but the Prince has lost interest and turns back to the crowd, gesturing to the knights atop their horses who had stopped to listen. He waves a hand in the air, seating himself back down again. 

“Continue!”

In the scuffle of dust and trampling hooves, Geralt finally manages to slip away into the crowd without another look at Jaskier. But his resolve to find the bard and force them to talk once the event is over is iron-clad. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your wonderful comments, I’m trying my best to respond to everyone but baby is keeping me busy. Just know I read and appreciate every one :)

Geralt finds the bard later, in a strange place. Jaskier tends to frequent public houses and inns, places where people will drunkenly hand him coins as tips, or to compose a quick ballad to a pretty barmaid after one too many ales. He doesn’t tend to be found in, or around, stables. Which makes Geralt wonder why exactly he’s lingering in such an unsuitable place, and gives him the glimmer of hope that had been crushed to pieces at their last encounter. 

Jaskier is lingering about near the entrance to the stables, strumming his lute and pretending to look entranced by the nearby water fountain. He steadfastly ignores Geralt as he approaches, only giving him a cool sideways glance when the witcher is almost upon him. 

“Not the sort of place I’d expect to find you.”

Geralt walks Roach into the stall he’s rented for the night and begins relieving him of his saddle, reins, and other tack. He can feel Jaskier’s eyes boring into the back of his head. 

“Likewise. Are you following me?”

“No.”

“Then you ended up here how, precisely?”

“The possibility of a job. Someone mentioned a banshee.” Geralt tries for humour again in an attempt to break the ice. But before he can finish his joke, Jaskier glares daggers at him.

“But it turns out it’s only me? Singing? Oh ha ha ha, very funny. Your sense of humour hasn’t improved much.” Dramatically, Jaskier sniffs the air. “Nor has the smell.”

“I wouldn’t start learning insults from Yennefer. You’re plenty able to think of them on your own.”

And the mention of the mage does it: the temperature in the stables drops ten degrees, defying the impressive heat, and Jaskier’s eyes cloud over. 

“Speaking of monsters, where is our lovely witch? Warming your bed for you, I imagine? I assume you’ve reconciled. The pair of you belong together.”

But the bite in Jaskier’s tone belays his words. That isn’t what he really thinks, and jealousy is oozing from every pore. Jealousy mingled with self-righteous hurt, and Geralt’s guilt rears it’s ugly head once more. The bard is clearly still sore, and his hopes that they might put their altercation behind them and move on begin to dwindle in the face of his potential inability to save the situation. 

“We haven’t reconciled. I doubt we ever will.” He pauses for effect. “I don’t think I wish to.”

“Why ever not?” Jaskier’s words are still barbed, and he folds his arms across his chest. He’s lingering in the doorway, watching as Geralt settles Roach, and it must count as a good thing that he hasn’t stormed off alone already. “You must be missing her.”

“I don’t.” Geralt closes the bottom half of the stable door behind him, locking Roach in for the night, watching as his mare begins to snuffle through a bale of hay to see if it suits his standards for dinner. “It isn’t her that I miss.”

It’s the first vulnerable thing he’s said in a long time, and it’s entirely appropriate that Jaskier is the one he’s saying it to. The bard makes him want to be vulnerable, to show sides of him that he’s kept under lock and key for so many decades. He’d been afraid he’d never see Jaskier again, at least not for a long while, so finding him here must surely mean something. He needs to make it mean something. 

“You’ve been singing love songs about me?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier glares daggers at him, wrong-footed by the bluntness of the question. 

“No. I sing love songs, and I sing about you. Never both.”

“Never?” It’s an falsely innocent question, that one word loaded with all the emotions Geralt has held back since he parted ways with Jaskier. It likely shows through in his voice as Jaskier eyes him warily before answering. 

“Never. Sorry to dent your ego.”

“Nothing to do with my ego. So the Prince misheard, did he?”

“Yes.” Jaskier’s chin juts our defiantly and he folds his arms. That surely wasn’t his finest moment, being singled out in front of Geralt the way he was, but it’s impossible to break through the armour he’s pulled down to protect himself. And Geralt can’t blame him, not after everything. 

He’s sweating, unused to the oppressive, dry heat of the city and he wipes his brow with his forearm. Jaskier’s eyes follow the movement and for the first time he notices the lack of the bard’s usual clothing. He’s in a simple linen shirt with the sleeves pushed back, and Geralt suddenly feels the distance between them like the expanse of an ocean. He chances moving forward, closing the gap, and is rewarded with a wary look but nothing more. Jaskier doesn’t turn and bolt like one of the stabled mares. 

“Would you believe me if I told you that I’d missed you?” He says it quietly, and when Jaskier doesn’t respond he backtracks instantly, wounded and irritated by his own vulnerability. “Your singing, that is. I missed how sore my ears became in your presence.”

“Lucky that ailment no longer troubles you.” Jaskier is looking at him differently now, more softly, as though he realises that Geralt’s first sentence was the whole truth, and that the barb about his singing was tacked on for effect. 

“I don’t feel lucky.” He steps forward again. The gap between them is truly closing now, and they’re less than an arm’s reach apart. 

“What do you feel, then?”

One of the horses whinnies quietly and another stomps the ground. The air is thick and heavy with the scent of dirt, sweat, hay and manure, yet Geralt fantasises he can smell Jaskier’s soap instead. That they’re close enough for him to be able to do that. 

What does he feel? Lonely, is the first and most honest response. Not alone, because he craves and relishes in solitude. But lonely. Knowing Jaskier isn’t out there thinking fondly of him, waiting for him, wanting to see him again. _Wanting_ him again. 

But he can’t voice it. Doesn’t know how. 

So, out of options, he does the one thing he can think of that might show Jaskier just how he truly feels about him: he grips him by the arm, pulls him close, and crushes their mouths together. 

*

It would be easy. It would be _so_ easy just to fall into Geralt’s kiss, to trust that he means it, and to forgive him. But there’s still a knot of pain in Jaskier’s chest, and while it may be slowly unravelling he isn’t quite there yet. He allows himself just a few seconds of pleasure, allowing Geralt to kiss him and hold him close against his body, before he presses a hand to the witcher’s chest and forcefully pushes him back. The thick, strongly scented air between them suddenly feels chilled, and Geralt’s eyes flash in shock. 

“I can’t.” 

It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done. Everything he’s been missing, wanting, and hoping for is standing right in front of him, saying all the right things and kissing him like he’s the only one in the world. But there’s a reticence in him that worries Geralt doesn’t mean it. That if Yennefer were to materialise at any moment that she would turn Geralt’s head and Jaskier would be left out in the cold again. His chest aches at the thought of such rejection. He isn’t sure he could handle it again. 

It comes down to one simple thing: he doesn’t trust the witcher. Not yet. 

“I’m sorry.”

Then, trying to pretend he didn’t see the expression of confusion and sorrow cross Geralt’s face, he turns and tugs the stable door open, closing it behind him and leaving the sound and smell of the horses behind him, then he’s alone in the courtyard as the sun finally sets behind the distant city walls. Wiping at his cheek, he’s stunned to find his fingers come away damp with tears.


	6. Chapter 6

Jaskier combats the hurt and anger that follows Geralt’s kiss the only way he knows how: by consuming copious amounts of alcohol.

He doesn’t venture far, only to the inn down the street, in the vain hope that Geralt may follow him. After one drink he’s pretty sure it’s not going to happen. After two, he’s convinced, convinced and angry at the witcher for not coming to firstly apologise, and secondly explain what the hell he was thinking. After three drinks, he’s just morose. Sitting alone with a tankard and his own sorrow, staring down into the dregs of his ale and feeling pretty pathetic. Here he is, sitting by himself, waiting for someone who will never come. He should have learned his lesson long ago, and dammit he _was_ learning. Then Geralt had to go and show up work his stupid white hair and stupid kissing and throw Jaskier right back into turmoil again.

And the _embarrassment_! He doesn’t sing _love_ _songs_ about the witcher. He sings ballads, and if somewhere along the line they get misinterpreted then he can’t be held accountable. Ballads are musical perfection all on their own, and he wouldn’t expect someone so uncultured as this high Prince of Nowheretown to understand his art.

But the way Geralt had looked at him, almost hopefully, stands out in his memory. Those amber eyes fixed on his, waiting, imploring, wanting him to say yes. Jaskier could have said yes. He could have made a joke out of the whole thing, appealed to Geralt’s ego. But the reality of it is that yes, he has written love songs about the witcher. For him. Songs that have never seen the light of day and never will. It became his way of getting over the heartbreak, by pouring all his pain and fury into his lyrics, then hiding them away in alittle ox in his mind where nobody can drag them out and use them to hurt him.

He sits in his seat beside the open window, the breeze doing nothing to detract from the heat of the evening, and reflects on their interaction. Yennefer was nowhere to be seen, and that fact alone is a comfort - and a possibility in itself. He turns his mug slowly in his hands, watching shadows play across the scratched oak table.Perhaps he’s been too rash. Perhaps letting Geralt back in wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Perhaps he should just go and find him, and listen to what he has to say.

It’s a risk, certainly. He could come away burned. But he could also find some closure, listen to Geralt’s apology and explanation, if they’re offered. Get some thoughts and feelings off his own chest. Maybe it’s time he stopped running away from the witcher and, instead, stood his ground and had the conversation Geralt is clearly so eager to have. He’s been alone for too long. They both have.

He’ll do it. He’ll go and find Geralt and talk to him and maybe, just maybe, they can get their friendship back on an even keel at least. And, if Jaskier is _really_ lucky and the stars align like never before, he might get more than that.

He pays his bar bill, distracted, and ties his coin purse back up and pockets it. The barkeep tries to strike up some small talk but Jaskier’s mind is elsewhere. Where will Geralt be now? Still in the stables with Roach, tending to her and hiding away from everyone? At another inn? Wandering the streets, looking for danger? In bed with a whore? Determination sets Jaskier’s jaw and he leaves the inn prepared to spend the entire night searching the city for the witcher if needs be.

First stop is the stables. Roach is there, nosing happily at her hay, but no Geralt. No sign of him either, no armour propped against the wall or weapons sheathed and set aside for later. So he heads back to the streets and looks this way and that, trying to decide where to go. He picks a direction at random, where he can hear cheerful chatter and raucous laughter signalling plenty of people - and plenty of alcohol - and although Geralt can be painfully antisocial when he wants to be, he sometimes enjoys ignoring everyone around him in a quiet corner of an inn.

The evening is milder now that the hour advances, and Jaskier walks slowly, trying to think of what he will say to Geralt when he finds him. What he’ll do. How the night will play out.

He doesn’t notice the heaviest man walking behind him until it’s too late. Until an arm snakes around his neck, until he’s dragged sideways into an alleyway between two houses, until a knife is pressed painfully into his side and a voice hisses in his ear, demanding money. He drives an elbow back into the man’s fleshy stomach in panic, retching as his airway is constricted and every gasped sip of breath fills his lungs with the putrid stench of sweat, stale beer, and unwashed male. The movement does nothing but make the man grunt, and the arm at his throat tightens. His vision sparkles, and his lute drops from his hands to the ground, the sound of splintering wood reaching him hazily as blood starts to pound in his ears. He feels the tip of the knife pierce his clothing, then his skin, feels blood bead and begin to drip down his side as he tries and fails to cry out for help.

“I want it all,” the man snarls into his ear, spittle flying and landing on Jaskier’s cheek. “Everything you got. I saw you in there, those fine clothes, drinking whatever you damn well want. Hate folk like you. Nothing left for the rest of us.”

He’s drunk, it’s obvious, slurring his words and not making much sense at all but the message is clear. He hates Jaskier for his fine clothes, his combed hair, his lute, his voice, his money. His everything. He wants all that Jaskier has and, from the feeling of the knife in his side, he isn’t above any level of violence to get it.

With a renewed burst of energy, borne of the sudden fear he may actually breathe his last breath in this dirty alleyway without getting to see Geralt one last time, to tell him exactly what an ass he is and how much Jaskier loves him, he twists in the man’s grip, feeling his skin tear on the blade of the knife and manages to shove a knee upwards between the man’s legs. He doubles over, one hand twisting in Jaskier’s coat and dragging him sideways as he does. Then there’s a voice, familiar and raspy, and Jaskier toppled backwards against the nearest wall.

He slides down to the ground, coughing and retching, vision blurred too badly to see what’s going on in front of him, but there’s someone else there, dragging the man backwards and away from him. There’s shouting, anger, the sound of metal on stone, then Jaskier’s eyes slide closed as he passes out.

He comes to a short while later and there’s a man kneeling over him with a frown on his face.

“Jaskier.”

He blinks owlishly, trying to sit up, clutching his side as it stings painfully. The man in front of him tilts his head, amber eyes catching the light from a nearby torch.

“Jaskier. Answer me.”

Nearby, he can see what looks to be a blurry pair of feet sticking out from behind a cart. An arc of dark liquid stains the hay on the back of said cart, stains the tips of Geralt’s hair as he leans in closer, taking Jaskier’s chin to turn it this way and that.

“Are you alright?”

Jaskier sighs. “Hello, Geralt.”


	7. Chapter 7

The weather has changed. Storm clouds have rolled in silently, and now an electric storm splits the skies above the city, the rolling thunder seeming to shake the buildings and wake children from their beds. No rain, so many of the inhabitants come to stand at their windows and doors to watch, retreating with gasps and cries when a fork of lightning hits the ground in the town square. Someone, a woman, keels over in a dead faint from shock while a young girl shrieks in delight and stamps her feet in excitement. The wind has got up, and people are rushing here and there to strap down the canopies of their shops, to secure their horses, ushering their wives and children indoors. The rain will come, soon, everybody can feel it on the air, and when it does it will be a blessing. The drought has lasted too long, parching the air and scorching the earth. A storm will he cleans sing, cathartic. The city will welcome it.

Geralt doesn’t care about any of that. Not the storm, not the lightning, the city folk, the horses, the man lying prone in the alley with his throat slit, none of it. He pushes open the door to the nearest inn, slamming it back against the wall in his haste, where the owner promptly drops the mug he was polishing, and tosses a handful of coins down onto the bar.

“A room for the night. Two beds.”

Mutely, the owner runs a hand through his grizzled beard and points to the stairs and mouths the number three, then Geralt is turning his back on him and climbing up to the room, the staircase illuminated by another flash of lightning. On reflection, the fact that he has blood splattered across his face and an unconscious Jaskier slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes probably gave the elderly man quite a fright. He reaches the room and deposits Jaskier on the bed nearest the door, watching as he starts to stir again. He’s only woken for the briefest of moments in the street, before passing out and falling forward into Geralt’s arms. He’d had no choice but to scoop him up and carry him like a child to the nearest place with a bed (bypassing the whorehouse, he didn’t fancy using any of the beds in there). Well, he could easily have left him there to wake up alone and tend to his own wounds, but Geralt isn’t the sort to do that, not with anyone, especially someone he considers a friend. And absolutely not with someone he considers much more than a friend.

He leaves Jaskier lying prone for a moment while he disarms, propping his sword against the wall and stripping his armour off until he’s only in his breeches and undershirt. He doesn’t light the fire but he does throw the windows open, inhaling the scent of the incoming storm deeply, closing his eyes for a long moment. The memory haunts him, of Jaskier held in a choking grip, twisting and thrashing, the knife pressing into the soft flesh of his side and blood blossoming in a dark flower through the pale fabric of his shirt.

“Geralt? What happened?”

Jaskier sits up, rubbing his head and groaning as he clasps his side. His shirt is soaked with blood, and Geralt makes short work of heating some water over the fire and ripping up one of the sheets on the bed to use as makeshift bandages while Jaskier watches him staunchly, clasping a hand to his ribs and breathing hard through his nose. His jaw bulges a little as he clenches his teeth then exhales deeply.

“You didn’t have to do this.” His voice is tight, whether from the pain or the discomfort of finding himself alone with Geralt, or a mixture of the two. Geralt chooses to ignore the latter possibility.

“I should have left you there? Should I return you to where I found you? You weren’t faring too well alone.”

“I was just fine. I was about to unleash a killer blow, I’ll have you know. Killer. I’m not the hapless man you knew before. I can use a sword now, defend myself.” Jaskier attempts to rub smears of dirt off his cheeks, only serving to make it worse, then whines at the pain in his side. “I was lulling him into a false sense of security.”

“I see. Well, it worked. I apologise for ruining your big moment.” Geralt sits down on the edge of the bed next to Jaskier. “Lift up your shirt. I need to see if this injury is worth the performance you’re putting on.”

“Your bedroom talk needs work.” Jaskier gripes, doing as he’s told but looking the other way as Geralt leans in towards him.

“I’ve hardly been practicing of late.” Geralt says dryly and Jaskier turns back to him to throw him an arch look, one eyebrow raised.

“Why’s that then? By choice of by chance?”

“Choice.”

Geralt’s hand presses down on the cut, wiping blood away with a warm cloth, and Jaskier flinches and grunts in pain. The pain quickly ebbs away though, forgotten, as Geralt meets his eyes and holds his gaze; the air between them seems to smoulder gently for a long moment until Jaskier looks away.

“Should I take this off?” He plucks at the fabric of his shirt, stained as it is with blood and dirt from the street. “Would it make it easier for you?”

There seems to be a double entendre in those words, one which Geralt steadfastly ignores as he nods.

“Yes. If you would.”

The shirt is pulled off shakily, thrown aside, then Jaskier sits back down and stares resolutely at the door, seeming to find it intensely fascinating.

“What are you doing here, Geralt? Are you following me?”

“Would you believe me if I said no?”

“Probably not.”

“No.”

“I don’t believe you.”

They trade a warm smile as Geralt finishes bandaging Jaskier’s side. One hand remains there, pressing tenderly over the wound, feeling the rise and fall of Jaskier’s rib cage as he breathes. He feels warm, cheeks flushed; being so close to Jaskier after so long is intoxicating. All he wants to do is wrap the bard in his embrace and kiss him senseless until both of them are gasping for breath. But Jaskier is guarding himself, shoulders tense, head still turned slightly away. Then he breaks the silence with a question, sounding as bitter as Geralt has ever heard him.

“Where’s Yennefer? You never did say. Abandoned you, has she? Shame.”

He doesn’t think it’s a shame, that much is obvious. But Geralt doesn’t challenge him.

“No. But it doesn’t trouble me. I don’t miss her,” Geralt takes a breath. “Not the way I miss you.”

“You miss me?” Jaskier looks disarmed by the honesty. “Really?”

“I tried to tell you in the stables. Yes. I miss you. That and more.”

“More?” Jaskier has turned towards him now, eyes flitting back and forth as he studies Geralt’s face intently, as though searching for signs of trickery. Unsatisfied, he looks away. “What does that mean?”

“Jaskier.” Geralt pushes his chin up with one finger, forcing their eyes to meet, and in that moment he can see it. Jaskier is lost, to him. “It’s you. It’s always been you. I only realised it too late. Do you think, uhm...” His nerve wavers and he clears his throat. “Could you ever...”

“Yes?” Jaskier’s voice is hoarse and quiet. He isn’t going to let Geralt off the hook with half-finished hints, it’s clear. He wants it spelled out to him, and who can blame him?

Geralt can do that. For Jaskier, he can do that.

“Can you forgive me? And do you think we can be friends once more?”

“Were we ever friends? Truly?” Jaskier asks, blinking widely at him. He’s stalling, Geralt can tell. He thinks for a moment before, slowly, shaking his head and watching Jaskier’s expression change from one of hope to one of shock and hurt.

“No.” Geralt says. “We weren’t. You were my friend. But I wasn’t yours, not truly in the way friends should be to each other. Because you’re more than that to me. You always were. I want more than friendship from you, but if that’s all you can offer then...” He swallows hard. “I can accept that. But I truly hope that isn’t the case.” Silence reigns between them as Jaskier studies his face, eyes flicking back and forth as he holds Geralt’s gaze. “Is it? The case?”

Jaskier doesn’t answer. Not verbally. He answers with his body, moving towards Geralt and leaning in, kissing him slowly on the mouth, tentatively, as though he’s testing this out, working out what he wants. Geralt allows it, kissing back with a reservation he doesn’t feel. He wants to grab Jaskier by the biceps, throw him down on the bed and kiss him senseless. A hand creeps onto his thigh and he flexes his fist to stop himself reaching for it. This is Jaskier’s moment to explore, to lead. To decide.

Then Jaskier winces, inhaled sharply, and pulls back with his hand covering the fresh bandage at his side. He closes his eyes for a second, fighting off what looks like a wave of pain, then leans back in but Geralt stops him with a hand on his thigh.

“We shouldn’t,” Geralt says and watches as the light does in Jaskier’s eyes and he pulls back sharply. Geralt has to grip his bicep to stop him toppling to the floor. “I want to. It isn’t that. Your side... you’re injured. We should... wait.”

But even as he says it, he knows he doesn’t truly want to. If Jaskier wants to, then so does he and he knows he can be gentle with the bard. Touch him slowly, manoeuvre him into positions that won’t hurt him, drench him in pleasure so intense he’ll forget he’s even in pain. His fingers flex around Jaskier’s arm in anticipation.

“You really want to wait?” Jaskier is eyeing him incredulously, still straddling his lap with one hand on Geralt’s chest. The air between them now feels charged, they’re so close they’re sharing a breath, and Geralt meets his eyes with what he hopes is a smouldering gaze.

“No. I don’t.”

Jaskier closes the gap between them, then they’re kissing heatedly again and Geralt wraps an arm around his bard’s waist and in one slow, controlled movement he turns them both and lowers Jaskier to the bed, propping himself up on an elbow and deepening their kiss. Jaskier’s hands are grasping at his clothing, pulling at the ties of his shirt, pushing down the back of his pants, everywhere at once.

In turn, he runs a palm down the smooth planes of Jaskier’s chest, over the slight softness of his stomach, stopping at the fastenings of his trousers. He looks up, meets darkened eyes with pupils dilated with desire. Jaskier’s lower lip is red from his own teeth worrying it, and Geralt leans down to kiss him again. His hand moves of its own accord, lower, finding Jaskier hard and cups him firmly, drawing a gasp and an arch from the young man. He buries his face in Jaskier’s neck, kissing and biting as his arms are gripped tight enough to bruise and Jaskier turns his body to press against him, trapping Geralt’s hand at his crotch between them.

Geralt’s fingers move to the fastenings of Jaskier’s pants and he pulls back enough just to ask:

“May I?”

Jaskier gazes up at him and it’s all there, in his eyes. All the love and devotion he feels for Geralt, unmasked, eclipsing now the pain of their parting. He’s forgiven, Geralt can feel it. But now it’s his turn to begin making amends, and he’ll spend the rest of his life doing so if Jaskier will allow him.

The bard nods, and Geralt kisses him once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all love a happy ending, right? Well, the story isn’t quite over just yet...


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I hope this final chapter was worth the wait :)
> 
> And I hope you’re all keeping well and staying safe.

When Geralt wakes up the next morning, Jaskier is gone.

*

He dresses slowly, teeth clenched, trying to ignore the ache in his chest. The room is cold now, starkly large and empty in contrast to last night. Nothing feels the same.

He expected to wake up to a naked Jaskier pressed against him, maybe lying on one of his arms causing it to go entirely numb as he has done in the past. That was a long time ago. He didn’t realise how much he missed waking up with Jaskier until he fell asleep looking forward to it - then to wake finding it snatched from his grasp has left him disoriented and sorrowful. Not that he would admit the latter to any living creature. Except, perhaps, Jaskier if it would convince him to come back.

But the empty room says otherwise. If Jaskier had wanted to stay, he would be here now. It’s still early, so the bard must have got up before dawn and dressed in almost silence to avoid waking Geralt as he usually sleeps so lightly that he would wake at the sound of a feather touching the ground in Roach’s stable. He must have worked hard to be quiet. Maybe didn’t put his boots on until he was out in the corridor, after closing the door slowly and wincing if the lock clicked. The other possibility is that Geralt, for the first time in years, slept so soundly that a hurricane wouldn’t have woken him, all thanks to who he thought he would be waking up with. He shakes his head sadly, combing his fingers through his hair and pulling the front sections back off his face, tying them quickly with a leather thong. He pulls a few strands out at the roots in his haste.

He turns to go, casting a glance back over the room carelessly, checking he hasn’t forgotten a piece of his armour or a weapon. Then he sees it.

Hanging over the chair by the window is Jaskier’s jacket, the embroidered red one that he always wears. It must be his favourite. Yet he’s left it here, in the wake of his own exit, for Geralt to find. To keep? That seems to be the insinuation. ‘Something to remember me by.’ He picks it up and fingers the delicate detail on the collar. Then lifts it to his face and inhales deeply. It smells of Jaskier, his hair, his skin, everything he knows and loves about the bard. He creases the fabric between his fingers, smooths it out again. Wonders what the fuck to do with it. He should hold onto it, that’s for sure. Perhaps Jaskier left it behind by mistake, but it seems unlikely.

What seems most likely is that Jaskier has gone. Gone for good, and last night wasn’t what it had seemed at all; Geralt had foolishly allowed himself to believe it was the start of a bright future together instead of a final goodbye. The realisation leaves a bitter taste in Geralt’s mouth, yet he steels his features into his customary scowl and yanks open the door to the bedroom.

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. He should have known better, he didn’t, and there’s nothing he can do about it now. Onward, onward and upward. He’d heard talk yesterday of a creature terrorising local farmers in the next village, leaving sheep and pigs slain in their own entrails. He could go there and see if he could be of any help. Immersing himself in something new, a focus, will be exactly what he needs.

As he reaches the bottom of the stairs, completely morose and not looking forward to going outside into the blistering heat, he stops dead in his tracks. Sitting at a corner table, nursing a steaming mug of something and shifting uncomfortably, is Jaskier. The bard glances up and meets his eyes, offering a lopsided smile, and Geralt’s feet take him halfway across the room before he realises what he’s doing. When he arrives at Jaskier’s table, he ignores the gesture to take a seat and stands over him instead, struggling for a moment to find his words.

“I thought...” Geralt holds up the jacket. “When you left this...”

“You thought I was making some grand poetic gesture, vanishing forever and leaving only my jacket to remind you of me?” Jaskier rolls his eyes, snatching the jacket from Geralt’s fingertips and shrugging it on. “If I wanted to do that, I wouldn’t use my favourite jacket. Some old breeches or a dirty boot, perhaps. My undergarments.”

Then he realised what he’s implied and blushes deeply, averting his eyes back to his mug. Somewhat pacified, Geralt drags a chair out and takes a seat opposite him. For a moment, neither of them speaks.

“I wasn’t leaving,” Jaskier says quietly. “I just needed some space to think. Last night...” He trails off, chews the skin beside his thumbnail. “We shouldn’t have done what we did. It was a mistake.”

That hurts. When Geralt woke this morning, he thought everything was back to normal between them, better than normal. He thought he’d been lucky enough to get everything he’d ever wanted. Now those thoughts are lying dashed to pieces at Jaskier’s feet.

“It didn’t feel like a mistake.”

“No, it didn’t.” Jaskier admits, and there’s pain and regret in his eyes as he looks at Geralt. “Not at the time. But now...”

Now, in the cold light of the early morning, he’s changed his mind. That’s what he’s trying to say. The landlord shuffles over and pours some dark slip masquerading as coffee into a dirty mug, eyeing Geralt balefully as he does, then disappears again, and Jaskier sits and stares at his hands.

“I’m not saying I regret it,” Jaskier tried to clarify, only succeeding in leaving Geralt even more in the dark than before. “I just wish we’d. You know. Talked more. A lot’s happened, Geralt. I can’t just forget it all. Can you?”

“No.” His response is hasty, giving Jaskier no room to doubt him. “I can’t. I don’t want to. I want to build bridges, if you’ll allow it.” Silence, bright eyes fixed on his own, searching. “Will you? Allow it?”

“This,” Jaskier gestures between them. “Isn’t easy. It won’t _be_ easy. Do you realise that?”

“Yes. I don’t expect it to be.”

“Good.”

Neither of them speak for a while after this. Geralt attempts to drink what is supposed to pass as coffee, but chokes at the acidic taste and spits it back into the mug, appalled. Jaskier’s lips twitch at the expression on his face but he says nothing. Behind the bar, the landlord flowers heavily at them both, clearly concerned they’re going to scare off other patrons. Fat chance, Geralt thinks. He’s seen livelier cemeteries.

“Hey,” Jaskier breaks the silence by judging Geralt by the elbow, almost sending lukewarm liquid slopping all over his hands. “I heard something on the grapevine you might be interested in.”

His voice is light, impish, so close to his usual self, and Geralt turns to appraise him. The sudden shift gives him hope. Perhaps they can finish building that bridge they’ve tentatively started working on.

“Mhm?”

“Farmers, in a village nearby.” Jaskier leans forward, suddenly enthused. “All their animals, slaughtered. Something terrible must be doing it, Geralt. Something terrifying. Perhaps we should, you know. Check it out.”

“Perhaps.” Geralt doesn’t mention that he’d already intended to, instead allowing Jaskier his moment to think he’s found Geralt a task all by himself.

“Perhaps?” Jaskier elbows him. “Come on, Geralt. Where’s your sense of adventure? And also,” he shrugs, a presence at being casual. “We can spend some time together. I suppose. If you want.”

Geralt watches him. Jaskier’s cheeks are pink, his eyes suspiciously bright as he looks at his own hands. Beneath the table, his thigh presses against Geralt’s own, a hint of suggestion.

“I can’t forget what you said, you know.” He says suddenly and Geralt blinks at him. “I’m your only friend, Geralt. Why were you working so hard to get rid of me?”

He wants an answer, that much is clear. But the landlord chooses that moment to sidle over and grunt at them that it’s time they paid for their room, so Geralt is saved from answering by Jaskier emptying his pockets, wincing a little as his injury clearly gives him some bother. Geralt stops him with a hand on his arm, pays the man, then they’re both walking out into the morning light together. The sky is a myriad of pinks and oranges as they head for Roach’s arable, and Geralt can’t help but allow his hand to brush against Jaskier’s as they walk. To his relief, Jaskier seems to mimic the action. He definitely doesn’t pull away.

They retrieve Roach and walk through the town square. Jaskier buys some apples and a loaf of bread, and Geralt secures then in the saddle bags.

“So!” Jaskier strums his lute. “I feel a song coming on about these farmers. What do you think it is, Geralt? Something dastardly, I’d wager. You’ll definitely need my help-“

“Jaskier.” Geralt takes the bard’s arm and drags him to a stop as they approach the city gates. Beyond them, the sun streams in and makes Jaskier’s hair shine in the early morning light. “I truly am sorry. For, well. For everything. You know you’re the only person I, uh. I want. You know I...” _I love you_. The words won’t come and he curses himself.

“I know.” Jaskier smiles. “It’s alright though.”

“It is?”

“Yes.” Jaskier takes Roach’s reins from Geralt’s hand, his smile turning to a broad grin. “You’ll just have to work your hardest to make it up to me. Starting now.” He gestures for Roach. “Leg up, Geralt. These feet aren’t made for all this walking.”

And they leave the city, heading off into the sunrise, Geralt on foot and Jaskier sitting astride Roach, the reins draped loosely around his wrist as he strums his lute and starts to sing, a new tune that Geralt hasn’t heard before. It’s true, Geralt thinks. If Jaskier will allow it, he’ll work his hardest to make up for his harsh words all that time ago.

And allowing him to ride Roach seems like a perfect start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Feedback is highly encouraged and very welcome. Stay safe, folks 🖤

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Twitter for writing updates and fandom fun @coffeeandcas


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